CHAPTER LIII.
THE FADING OF THE RAINBOW.
I loved a love once, fairest among women; Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her-- All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
LAMB.
Beautifully and truly, in the fourth book of the most poetical ofstories, has a New World romancist described the state of a sorrowinglover. "All around him," saith he, "seemed dreamy and vague; all withinhim, as in a sun's eclipse. As the moon, whether visible or invisible,has power over the tides of the ocean, so the face of that lady, whetherpresent or absent, had power over the tides of his soul, both by day andnight, both waking and sleeping. In every pale face and dark eye he sawa resemblance to her; and what the day denied him in reality, the nightgave him in dreams."
Such was, very faithfully, my own condition of mind during the intervalwhich succeeded my departure from Paris--the only difference being thatLongfellow's hero was rejected by the woman he loved, and sorrowing forthat rejection; whilst I, neither rejected nor accepted, mourned anothergrief, and through the tears of that trouble, looked forward anxiouslyto my uncertain future.
I reached Saxonholme the night before my father's funeral, and remainedthere for ten days. I found myself, to my surprise, almost a richman--that is to say, sufficiently independent to follow the bent of myinclinations as regarded the future.
My first impulse, on learning the extent of my means, was to relinquisha career that had been from the first distasteful to me--my second wasto leave the decision to Hortense. To please her, to be worthy of her,to prove my devotion to her, was what I most desired upon earth. If shewished to see me useful and active in my generation, I would do my bestto be so for her sake--if, on the contrary, she only cared to see mecontent, I would devote myself henceforth to that life of "retiredleisure" that I had always coveted. Could man love more honestlyand heartily?
One year of foreign life had wrought a marked difference in me. I hadnot observed it so much in Paris; but here, amid old scenes and oldreminiscences, I seemed to meet the image of my former self, andwondered at the change 'twixt now and then. I left home, timid, ignorantof the world and its ways, reserved, silent, almost misanthropic. I cameback strengthened mentally and physically. Studious as ever, I could yetcontemplate an active career without positive repugnance; I knew how tomeet and treat my fellow-men; I was acquainted with society in its mostrefined and most homely phases. I had tasted of pleasure, ofdisappointment, of love--of all that makes life earnest.
As the time drew near when I should return to Paris, grief, and hope,and that strange reluctance which would fain defer the thing it mostdesires, perplexed and troubled me by day and night. Once again on theroad, the past seemed more than ever dream-like, and Paris andSaxonholme became confused together in my mind, like the minglingoutlines of two dissolving views.
I crossed the channel this time in a thick, misting rain; pushed onstraight for Paris, and reached the Cite Bergere in the midst of a warmand glowing afternoon. The great streets were crowded with carriages andfoot-passengers. The trees were in their fullest leaf. The sun poureddown on pavement and awning with almost tropical intensity. I dismissedmy cab at the top of the Rue du Faubourg Montmatre, and went up to thehouse on foot. A flower-girl sat in the shade of the archway, tying upher flowers for the evening-sale, and I bought a cluster of white rosesfor Hortense as I went by.
Madame Bouisse was sound asleep in her little sanctum; but my key hungin its old place, so I took it without disturbing her, and went up as ifI had been away only a few hours. Arrived at the third story, I stoppedoutside Hortense's door and listened. All was very silent within. Shewas out, perhaps; or writing quietly in the farther chamber. I thought Iwould leave my travelling-bag in my own room, and then ring boldly foradmittance. I turned the key, and found myself once again in my ownfamiliar, pleasant student home. The books and busts were there in theiraccustomed places; everything was as I had left it. Everything, exceptthe picture! The picture was gone; so Hortense had accepted it.
Three letters awaited me on the table; one from Dr. Cheron, written in abold hand--a mere note of condolence: one from Dalrymple, datedChamounix: the third from Hortense. I knew it was from her. I knew thatthat small, clear, upright writing, so singularly distinct and regular,could be only hers. I had never seen it before; but my heartidentified it.
That letter contained my fate. I took it up, laid it down, pacedbackwards and forwards, and for several minutes dared not break theseal. At length I opened it. It ran thus:--
"FRIEND AND FELLOW-STUDENT.
"I had hoped that a man such as you and a woman such as I might becometrue friends, discuss books and projects, give and take the lesserservices of life, and yet not end by loving. In this belief, despiteoccasional misgivings, I have suffered our intercourse to becomeintimacy--our acquaintance, friendship. I see now that I was mistaken,and now, when it is, alas! too late, I reproach myself for theconsequences of that mistake.
"I can be nothing to you, friend. I have duties in life more sacred thanmarriage. I have a task to fulfil which is sterner than love, andimperative as fate. I do not say that to answer you thus costs me nopain. Were there even hope, I would bid you hope; but my labor pressesheavily upon me, and repeated failure has left me weary and heart-sick.
"You tell me in your letter that, by the time I read it, you will be faraway. It is now my turn to repeat the same words. When you come back toyour rooms, mine will be empty. I shall be gone; all I ask is, that youwill not attempt to seek me.
"Farewell. I accept your gift. Perhaps I act selfishly in taking it, buta day may come when I shall justify that selfishness to you. In themeantime, once again farewell. You are my only friend, and these are thesaddest words I have ever written--forget me!
"HORTENSE."
I scarcely know how I felt, or what I did, on first reading this letter.I believe that I stood for a long time stone still, incapable ofrealizing the extent of my misfortune. By-and-by it seemed to rush uponme suddenly. I threw open my window, scaled the balcony rails, andforced my way into her rooms.
Her rooms! Ah, by that window she used to sit--at that table she readand wrote--in that bed she slept! All around and about were scatteredevidences of her presence. Upon the chimney-piece lay an envelopeaddressed to her name--upon the floor, some fragments of torn paper andsome ends of cordage! The very flowers were yet fresh upon her balcony!The sight of these things, while they confirmed my despair, thawed theice at my heart. I kissed the envelope that she had touched, the flowersshe had tended, the pillow on which her head had been wont to rest. Icalled wildly on her name. I threw myself on the floor in my greatagony, and wept aloud.
I cannot tell how long I may have lain there; but it seemed like alifetime. Long enough, at all events, to drink the bitter draught to thelast drop--long enough to learn that life had now no grief in store forwhich I should weep again.
In the Days of My Youth: A Novel Page 46
